


Se Souvenir

by thequidditchpitch_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Dark, Death Eaters, Drama, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Mystery, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Darkness Falls, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-07
Updated: 2006-02-07
Packaged: 2018-10-26 16:11:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10790061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thequidditchpitch_archivist/pseuds/thequidditchpitch_archivist
Summary: All Ginny wants is to know what everyone wants from her. The only thing anyone wants from her is for her to remember. (Pre-HBP)





	Se Souvenir

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes:

• Disclaimer: Obviously not mine. JKR owns loads of things.  
• This, by far, is _not_ a simple story. You guys have no clue how many times I've had to rework certain parts of the text so that it made sense to _me_. This story has the potential to lose you; try not to let it. :)  
• I can argue, with the determination of a stubborn mule, that this is an "H/G 2gether 4ever" fic, despite the circumstances that take place in it.  
• **Don't take punctuation for granted**. Indeed, the only time I'm not messing with all of your minds is when I'm **apostrophising**.  
• Gotta give credit where it's due — this fic was indeed inspired by an episode of **BtVS** (if you're a fan, you'll know which one), as well as a one-act play I'd read back in high school (sadly, I've forgotten both the name of the playwright and the play itself. Bollocks).

Oh, yeah, and if you're reading this now, just know that this is OotP-friendly, but not HBP-friendly.

* * *

  
** Se Souvenir **

_{by me, Kobe Grace}_

*

He has green eyes and black hair, from which the small, lightning-bolt-shaped scar on his forehead peeps underneath. Merlin, how she loves him.

'What do you want for breakfast?' she asks.

'I want you to remember.'

She looks up. 'What?'

'Toast,' he replies, smiling. 'And have we got any eggs, love?'

Ginny sighs. She is the sort of wife whose downfall is her husband's smile, and though she's been a married woman for nearly five years now, she reckons she will never grow tired of seeing it. 'Toast and eggs, coming right up,' she says dotingly, and leans forward over the kitchen island so that Harry can give her a kiss.

It starts off simply enough, as a mere touch of the lips. But this is _GinnyandHarryPotter_ — The Boy Who Lived and the Girl He Was Meant To Be With — it only makes sense that their kiss becomes something more. Fortunately for Ginny, she hasn't actually started cooking anything yet, because now, Harry is hoisting her up to sit on the countertop, making her other parts more accessible to his avaricious mouth. He rips her shirt off and tears her bra asunder. His hand expertly finds its way into her knickers, and soon, Ginny can feel something familiarly hard jutting into her calf.

'Oh, god,' she moans, as he starts nibbling on her shoulder, 'what do you want from me?'

Harry grins and takes his other hand to her breast. 'That's an easy one,' he says gruffly. 'I want _you_. I want to _fuck_ you; right here, right now.'

A feeble nod is all that Ginny can manage before she brings his head up to kiss him again. She snakes her tongue around his, cupping his face for dear life, and when he starts to lay her down against the shiny, granite surface, she wraps her legs around his hips. The sex that follows is heady, impulsive and wanton; seemingly like a petty shag between a john and a prostitute. But Ginny isn't the least bit perturbed. She is quite secure with the fact that there is something deeper fuelling their passion.

Because he is Harry, her husband, and she loves him.

And because she is Ginny, his wife, whom he will spend the rest of his days loving back.

*

He has grey eyes and blond hair, the kind that makes fat girls look dreadful on cloudy days, and — 

_No, no, that's not right_ — 

*

The clock above the door reads 10:47. Due to the present circumstances, Harry has decided that he's got no other choice but to show up two hours late for work this morning — but if the redheaded vixen before him counts for anything at all, then whatever grief Shacklebolt is sure to put him through will be well worth it. After he and Ginny made love in the kitchen, they decided to have a proper go at it in their bedroom. And even when Ginny declared that enough was enough and sent him to the shower, their arousal got the better of them once more and Harry took her right there on the spot, with her back pressed against the tiled wall.

Now, they are sitting across from each other in the bathtub, drinking cheap champagne from Transfigured goblets. Ginny's knees are bent and her feet are cradling her husband's balls. Every now and then, she wriggles her toes to tickle his length; whenever she does this, Harry softly groans. The sound is music to her ears. If only they could spend _all_ their time like this … 

As she's taking a sip of her wine, she notices the lazy smile gracing Harry's face. 'What?' she wants to know.

Harry closes his eyes in satisfaction. 'Don't you remember?'

'Remember what?'

'I want you to remember.'

'Come on, stop playing games,' Ginny laughs, splashing him a little with the bath water. A tuft of bubbles lands on his nose, which he doesn't bother wiping off. 'You're such an incorrigible tease sometimes.'

Harry doesn't answer immediately. Ginny sits up, somewhat expectant; and just when she's about to splash him some more, Harry releases a dreamy sigh.

'You were seventeen,' he reminisces contentedly, sliding down a little against the tub. 'Don't you remember … ? You were in your last year at Hogwarts. I'd just started Auror training, but I had the Christmas hols off, and I spent them at the Burrow with you lot … '

Ginny begins to smile, too. She knows where this is heading. 'Ah, yes. I remember this.'

'I hadn't seen you for a while … '

'No, you hadn't.'

'And I'd forgotten what you looked like … '

'Yes, you had.'

Suddenly, Harry sits up, and an adorable grin spreads across his face. 'But d'you know what the funny thing was?' he asks her animatedly. 'As I recall it, later that day, I was looking at a picture of you from back in your sixth year, and it was strange, because you hadn't physically changed _at all_! Same hair, same freckles … Cor, I was so baffled. I mean, if you didn't _look_ any different, then what was it about you, you know, that made it seem as though I was seeing you for the very first time?'

Ginny giggles. They have been together for quite a while now; it's high time that she confess. 'It was the green shirt I was wearing.'

Harry looks at her oddly. 'What?'

'Yeah … ' she smirks, exhibiting the part of her that indubitably takes after the twins, and goes on to explain: 'Well, love, what with those sexless Hogwarts robes and all, I gather you couldn't actually have taken a good look at me beforehand, could you? I was just another ginger-haired Weasley; different, but not so much that you would notice it … ' Then Ginny's tone changes to become a fraction more sombre. 'And let's not forget … your seventh year was hardly the time for you to be distracted by little Ginny Weasley's burgeoning curves.'

'Why not?' asks Harry, who genuinely seems to have forgotten.

Ginny gives him a reproachful look.

And when she sees him tense for a second, she knows he has understood. Harry clears his throat. 'Right. Of course.'

She changes the subject. 'But redheads in green shirts,' she says, resuming her light, coquettish tone, 'together, they're like a beacon — you can't help but notice them. Besides, as _I_ recall it, that particular shirt was rather low-cut. But don't you go on thinking that you'd sneaked a peak at my tits, Harry Potter. If you had, then believe you me, it was exactly as I'd intended.'

Harry exhales, long and slow. 'Bugger … ' His lids start drooping once more. 'You have got some very nice tits, dear.'

Ginny snickers. She shakes her head, rolls her eyes at her husband and playfully admonishes, 'You're positively shameless,' before wriggling her toes again.

*

Every Friday, Ginny has lunch with her sister-in-law at Ciaran's Pub. Today is no exception. The pub is a Wizarding eatery in the heart of Mudblood London, but the Mudbloods can't see it, and the reason that Ginny and Hermione frequent it so much is because of its superb Cobb salad.

'So,' Hermione the Mudblood asks, 'have either you or Harry made the reservations?'

'Erm, I think _I_ did … ' To be sure, Ginny takes out her day-planner and leafs through it. 'Oh, here we are — Circe's Lounge, for four at eight-thirty. Where should we meet?'

'Is our place all right?'

'No, not really,' says Ginny casually, reaching for her pumpkin juice. 'It reeks of tainted blood and unworthy children. The fact that you've despoiled my brother with your despicable spawn makes me want to vomit.' She takes a sip of the drink. 'Can we meet up at the Thistledown Square Apparition point instead, say, around eight-twenty-five?'

Hermione nods. 'Of course. I'll be sure to owl Ron once I get back to work.'

*

"Why did you call her that?"

"Call who what?"

"Hermione. You called her … a derogatory term."

"No, I didn't."

"Ginevra, we both know that's not true."

He has green eyes and black hair, but Ginny doesn't love _him_ , _the idiot_. "And why would I do that?" she snaps, her eyes thinned to mere slits. "Hermione is Ron's wife. She's one of my best friends. I love her dearly — what the _fuck_ do you know?"

Despite her outburst, however, _he_ doesn't look at all ruffled. This serves to annoy Ginny even more. "Do you truly believe that?" he asks her.

"God," Ginny scoffs, shaking her head in disgust. "What do you want from me? Hmm? What the _bloody hell_ do you want from me?"

*

_"I want you to be a good little girl," answered the blond, his face set in its perpetual smirk. One of his long, manicured fingers trailed its path from her left knee up to her inner thigh. "And if the ickle weasel stays good and doesn't fight back, maybe the big, bad dragon will give her a treat."_

Her hands were bound, her ankles were chained, so she did the only thing she could do to maintain even a shred of her dignity.

She spat at him.

"Ugh!" he cried, revolted, and wiped the offending saliva off of his face. "Fine, then," he snarled, readying to draw out his wand. "If that's the way you want to play, bitch — **Imperio**!"

*

Later that evening, Ginny watches on fondly as her brother leads his wife around the dance floor. At one point during the soft, jazz number, Ron swings himself and his partner around so that he catches Ginny's eye; he winks at her jovially before donning a boyish grin. Ginny smiles back, but suppresses an uncanny sense of longing. Although Ron drops by her place practically all the time, and although he lives not even three streets from her own, for some reason or another, Ginny feels as if she doesn't see him as often as she'd like.

She tells herself she's just being silly.

'Is that really my brother?' she finds herself musing to Harry, who is sitting beside her. 'The Ron _I_ remember growing up with had two left feet.'

She turns to look at Harry when she realises that he hasn't said anything, and is surprised to see him regarding her with bewilderment.

'What?' she asks, mildly bothered to be scrutinised so.

'You — you just said — ' There is a glimmer behind her husband's viridian eyes, which makes them seem almost … _hopeful_ , is it? In any case, it doesn't last long enough for her to decide whether or not it's a good thing. Harry drops his gaze and gives her a half-smile. 'Nah. Forget it.'

'Okay,' Ginny shrugs.

Harry stands up, making to push his chair back. 'Come on. Let's go dan — '

'Omigod.'

Both Ginny's and Harry's heads swerve towards the sound of the flustered, female voice.

The utterance has come from a woman — a girl, really — with wide, blue eyes and an abundance of mahogany curls. Ginny's brow knits in concern: the girl looks like she might be in some sort of trouble. Her thin, petite form is still yet trembling. The waning of her already pale complexion is particularly notable.

Then the girl stammers, 'Oh, dear lord — you — you _are_ him — you're Harry Potter — ' and what benevolent inclinations Ginny might have had dissipate in a millisecond, along with her patience.

To his credit, Harry looks slightly embarrassed. But he doesn't send the brunette on her way. 'Erm, hello,' he smiles.

'Oh — oh, my — ' The girl, to Ginny's pure annoyance, begins to make odd, fanning movements with her hands. 'I-I-I know all about you, you see — I was at Hogwarts, too — '

'Is that right?' Harry remarks obligingly.

'Still am, ac-actually. Er … I'm about to start my last y — my last year.'

Ginny grimaces, unimpressed. So, the twit is still in school — _Then what's she doing_ here _,_ Ginny wonders, _in an_ adult _dining spot, dressed far more provocatively than a respectable young lady ought to, fawning over_ my _husband? Shouldn't she be busying herself with more appropriate things, say, for instance, summer Potions assignments?_

Unable to resist, Ginny pipes in with, 'Aren't you a little young to be at Circe's?' She just barely manages to hide her distaste.

Not that the girl notices. Indeed, it's as though she hasn't taken notice of Ginny at all until the moment Ginny spoke up. 'Erm … pardon?' the girl frowns, confused, exclaiming, 'Oh!' when she gets it. 'Oh, no. I turned seventeen a month ago. I'm fully of age.'

'How lovely for you,' says Ginny sarcastically.

The girl doesn't notice that, either. Blushing prettily, she has already focused her attention back onto Harry. 'Oh, Mr. Potter,' she breathlessly announces, 'I just … I just wanted to say thank you, you know, for everything that you've done — '

Suddenly, the girl's voice breaks.

Ginny's eyes widen.

'Oh — blimey — I — I didn't think that I'd start _crying_ — Oh, _lord_ , Mr. Potter, you must think me such an idiot — '

Ginny bites on her lips so as not to say a word.

Harry, on the other hand — sweet, darling, chivalrous-to-a-fault Harry — quickly assures the blubbering lass, 'No, I don't think you're an idiot.' And before Ginny can advise him of better, Harry reaches inside his robes and hands the girl a red handkerchief: a silk one from the set of three that Ginny gave him for their last anniversary. To add salt to the wound, when the young thing frantically shakes her head and refuses to accept the proffered cloth, Harry nods and urges her, 'Go on. Really, it's fine.'

Oh, it's official now. Ginny Potter is _angry_.

Harry's latest act of kindness is enough to send the brunette into a full-fledged fit of tears. 'Oh, bless you, Harry Potter!'

'Yes, well … ' He stuffs the yet un-taken hankie into the girl's hands. 'Here you go, then.'

After taking a couple of seconds to compose herself and dabbing her face once or twice with the scarlet silk, the brunette hiccoughs and looks up at Harry with an anxious half-smile. 'Can I — ' She hiccoughs again. 'It — it wouldn't be so bold, would it, if I could — if I could — give you a small hug … would it?'

Ginny's mouth drops in disbelief. The chit isn't _serious_ , is she? And as for her husband: surely, what with all the crazy fanatics out there — not to mention the Dark witches and wizards who have yet to be caught for their crimes — Harry will turn her down. The handkerchief is one thing, but this — Harry _knows_ better than to fall for _this_ — 

'Of course not,' says Harry, and the brunette wastes no time in throwing her arms around him.

Just as quickly, however, she realises her conduct and abruptly backs off, her now-unattractive flush likening her to a brown-haired tomato. 'You've no ide — just, thank you — so much — ' she sputters. She adds as an afterthought, 'I'm sorry about your dinner — '

'Bye, then,' Harry congenially calls out, as the bint gleefully scampers back to her table.

Ginny watches sullenly as Harry chuckles; he's amused by the encounter. All notions of dancing forgotten, he returns to his seat and looks at Ginny, offering her a sheepish smile. 'Sorry about that, love.'

'Yeah, of course you were,' Ginny mutters under her breath.

'What?'

She shakes her head. 'Never mind.'

'Gin … ' Obviously having sensed his wife's aggravation, though not wholly understanding it all the same, Harry's smile falters, his tone becoming laced with nervousness. 'Dear,' he tries lightly, 'it — it's not my fault — I mean, I can't help it if — '

'If _what_?' she demands as she rounds on him, a move that catches herself off guard, as well. Nonetheless, now that she's started, she doesn't ease off. 'What, were you so busy letting the chit throw herself at you that you couldn't think to say, "Oh, by the way, this is my _wife_?"'

Harry sighs, abandoning his attempt at charm. This time, when he looks at Ginny, his face bears nothing other than true compunction. 'I'm sorry,' he says gravely. 'It was insensitive of me. I should have known how much it would bother you.'

Even with Harry's sincerity, however, Ginny remains vexed, and she brushes off his apology as though it is nothing more than excess fireplace soot.

'Fine,' she replies tonelessly. She rises from her own chair. 'Whatever. I'm going to the loo.'

*

She begins to make her way to the bathroom, discreet in her anger, maintaining a dignified stride. _Bless you, Harry Potter … I know all about you … No. I turned seventeen a month ago_ … Honestly, how tasteless could some people get? Ginny doesn't know who she's mad at more — the brunette or Harry. And, to tell the truth, she is also somewhat disappointed that Harry never even thought to get up and follow her. Resentfully rolling her eyes, Ginny inwardly asks herself, _Just what kind of husband_ is _he?_

She is still fuming when, unexpectedly, a shiver runs down her spine.

Ginny gives a soft gasp. Though she's just yards away from the ladies' room, she stops on her tracks. Something, she recognises, has caught her unawares; whatever it is, it's strong enough to raise the little hairs on the back of her neck and set her skin aflame with tingles. And the temperature — did someone turn up the heat? Or is it just her? She hasn't a clue how to articulate it. But she feels it. Oh, how she feels it … 

_Someone is watching her_.

Ignoring her better judgement, Ginny slowly turns around.

A smouldering gaze ensnares her the instant her eyes meet it. For a moment, Ginny feels as though she has forgotten how to breathe. The gaze belongs to a man standing at the bar; he is blond, grey-eyed and of a tall, lithe frame. Ginny wonders how she might have missed him. From his appearance she deduces that he's of the upper class, but he's unlike any of the elite that Ginny has ever met before; he effortlessly exudes _sex_ and _malice_ , all the while being shamelessly aware of it. What's more, he reminds her of someone. She can't even begin to think whom. Logically, she knows that she _doesn't_ know him, because she would have remembered having made his acquaintance before, but Ginny can't help it — the feeling that she is, in one way or another, familiar with _his_ face is peculiarly hard for her to shake off.

Ginny swallows. She licks her lips. When the blond, this paradigm of casual elegance, takes a sip of his martini, Ginny's mouth immediately goes dry, and what illicit, naughty thoughts run rampant in her mind manifest themselves into the form of a tiny shudder. The blond returns her gawky stare with his own piercing one, emanating not even a modicum of abashment. Unwanted desire courses through Ginny's veins. It's almost as though the blond can see right through her, as though he knows every bad thing she is thinking, and it's enough to make Ginny feel like she once did as a little girl: cold, clumsy and wet, lying on cobbled stone … Only she's _naked … and touching herself_ … 

_But that's just what you want to do right now, isn't it, pet?_

Ginny stiffens. _Oh, god_.

A rush of blood goes to her head at once, making her feel dizzy and dazed and _wrong_. She knows better than to allow herself to _feel_ this way; she is sane, adult — she is _married_ , for Merlin's sake! There is absolutely no reason for her to not be in control of her emotions.

And yet … 

_I can't handle this_ , she admits to herself guiltily. _Oh, god_. As the blush on her cheeks grows more adamant by the second, Ginny abruptly breaks eye contact, forcing herself to turn around and once again head straight for the bathroom.

*

The first thing she does when she gets inside is splash her face with cold water.

*

When she emerges from the bathroom, she finds that the blond has left and she doesn't feel weird _at all_ — as if he was never there to unnerve her in the first place. Straightening her shoulders and smoothing out her front, she starts walking back to her table. Hermione and Ron, to her good fortune, have returned from dancing, so she doesn't have to deal with an awkward silence alone with Harry. For the rest of the evening, she feigns a cheerful, personable manner. Whenever she addresses Harry, it's only because it's absolutely necessary, and to her relief, Harry is perceptive enough to play along.

_Hmm_ , she thinks during one of the quiet moments, _so he's_ that _kind of husband, then_.

She doesn't want to begin to think about what kind of wife _she_ seems to be on the verge of becoming.

*

_Pop!_

Ginny's neck is hurting. She kicks off her shoes. She feels Harry's hands begin to sensually grope her around her waist and her breasts; she subtly pushes them away.

'Ginny … '

She ignores that, too.

It's not exactly late when she and Harry finally Apparate home, but the night isn't so young that she wants to spend the rest of it bothering to explain herself. Unfortunately for her, that's precisely just what Harry has in mind. As she sits in front of her vanity and starts taking her earrings off, she hears Harry's voice rumbling from the doorway: 'Why are you being like this?'

She unclasps her necklace. 'I don't know what you're talking about.'

'Ginny,' he chuckles pitifully, 'come on.'

'What?' She doesn't exactly mean to snap — but Harry's getting to her; he's been doing so all night. Because she doesn't want to face him directly, she settles for his reflection in her mirror. 'What do you want me to say? What do you want from me?'

'Don't you remember?' he says softly.

'Bugger, here we go again — '

'I want you to remember.'

'Why do you keep saying that?'

'Because — ' He looks at her helplessly, as if he's stuck or at a loss for words, and when he speaks again, he just sounds … _beaten_. 'Because, Ginny, you're not even trying.'

'Of course I'm not,' she curtly replies, looking at her husband through the glass as though he's the most trying man alive, 'considering that I don't even know what it is I'm supposed to remember in the first place.'

She returns to slowly removing her jewellery and replacing them into their drawers — when all of a sudden, Harry snatches the gold violently from her grasp and casts it harshly onto the parquet floor. 'For fuck's sake!'

Ginny turns around and stares at him in shock. Harry looks absolutely _livid_! His face is red; his breathing is heavy with emotion. At first, this makes Ginny even angrier. Harry is the one who treated her like nothing at Circe's. Isn't _she_ the wronged party here? Isn't it _her_ right to be throwing things around?

Then she takes the time to take a _really_ good look into her beloved's green eyes, and something tells her that this isn't about the restaurant anymore.

'Harry,' she breathes, 'what the hell is the matter with you?'

'With _me_? With fucking _me_? What the hell is the matter with _you_?!' Harry throws his hands up and scoffs in frustration. 'Damn it, Ginny! Why do you keep doing this to yourself?' Then, if there are any words in the world to make Ginny Potter fraught with dread, they are the next ones to come out of Harry's mouth: 'Why do you insist on living this lie?'

Ginny's face drains of all colour.

_Oh, god_.

The matter of the restaurant and the brunette is officially forgotten. But Ginny would rather deal with _that_ ; she would rather deal with a thousand slags shamelessly flaunting themselves over her husband _every hour of the bleeding day_ , than with _this_ … 

'Harry,' she tremulously whispers, 'don't. Don't you dare … not to me. Please. Y-you can't.'

Harry's head drops dolefully into his hands. 'God, Gin … I don't know _what_ to do with you anymore.'

'Well, what the fuck am _I_ supposed to do?' she shrills, rising from her chair. 'Do you _want_ me in shambles, Harry, is that what you want?' She laughs bitterly. 'Because I'm not as stable a person as you think I am. I'm _not_ as strong as you all believe. For god's sake, Harry; you should know that better than anyone!'

Harry glares at her for a moment and opens his mouth to retort — but the angry shot never comes. Instead, Harry releases a long, suffering sigh. He removes his glasses to massage his temples.

'No, Gin,' he says wearily, sitting down on the bed in front of her. 'I don't know you at all. How can I?'

'Oh, god … ' This comes out as a choked sob, so she bites down on her hand to gain some much needed resolution. She can't afford to crumble _now_! 'Harry — ' Her lip quivers and she kneels down before him, taking his hands into her tear-stained ones — 'Harry, please, let's not fight. I love you so much. You must know that, don't you? Please … '

When Harry looks up again, his eyes are soft and loving. But they lack the sympathy she so badly needs. 'Gin, you have to stop this.'

She forces a pathetic smile onto her face. 'No, Harry.'

'Ginny, it's not good for you.'

' _No_.' She wrenches herself away from him, seeing, just then, that there is something wrong with him. _He isn't acting the right way_. The Harry she knows and loves would never _be_ like this to her; he would _never_ tell her to stop — 

But she can fix it. She can fix _him_. All she has to do is — 

Wiping her tears away with the back of her newly freed hand, she stalks away from him, her face set in a mask of determination. 'I've had enough of this,' she states firmly. 'I'm starting over — '

'Ginny!' Harry cries, frustrated. Then, softer, as if he's pleading, almost, 'Ginny, love … '

'I'm not listening to you, I swear.'

'Gin, I'm begging you … Don't be like this.'

'No.'

'Ginny — '

'I said _no_!'

"Ginevra — "

Her body starts shaking as the sound of her given name penetrates her mind, affecting her as would nails on a chalkboard. "Shut _up_!" she yells, clamping her hands over her ears. "Shut up! Don't call me that! _Don't ever fucking goddamn call me that_!"

"Ginevra!" And his voice is clear, strong, _American_ ; and before Ginny can do anything to prevent it, the walls of pretension that have been her saviour _for so damn long_ swiftly begin to tumble, tumble, tumble down.

*

_No …_

Oh, god … 

*

He has green eyes and black hair, but no scar on his forehead — there has never been a scar on his forehead. He doesn't wear glasses because his vision is fine. His lime-green Healer's robes hang limply on the coat-rack by the door.

Ginny rubs at her eyes, red and puffy; her voice is hoarse from weeks of not having been used. "What do you want from me?" she asks.

Speaking with a Bostonian lilt, the Healer replies, "I want you to remember, Ginevra."

"I can't," she says stiffly, crossing her arms.

"Why not?"

"I just can't, that's all."

"You mean you will _not_."

"Bollocks. What difference does it make?"

"You are hiding something. I fully intend to find out what it is."

"I'd much rather that you go bugger yourself and let me be."

But the Healer remains patient in his tenacity. "Ginevra, it is very important that you try to recall the events of your ordeal."

Ginny turns around in an instant. Her eyes, as brown and murky as they are, ominously flash like those of a provoked animal's, and if looks could kill, then her patronising Yankee companion would be dead and not a moment too soon. "You think I don't know that?" she spews hatefully. "What, you think — but Merlin, it's so easy for _you_ , isn't it? All you have to do is sit in your chair, looking high and mighty, telling me, 'Remember, Ginevra, remember!'" Ginny is downright screaming by now. "Can't you see that I don't _want_ to bloody remember? I _don't_! Because — _fuck_ — what good would it possibly do me, hmm, to think about it? And _you_ , you are not the one who has to — "

She stops herself quickly, and squeezes her eyes shut.

The Healer regards her with a disciplined poise. "To what, Ginevra?"

And after a moment, Ginny haltingly replies, "To live … through … _it_ … "

_If the ickle weasel stays good and doesn't fight back, maybe the big, bad dragon will give her a treat_ — 

A sob escapes her being. "Oh, god — "

Her head begins to spin as it starts to fill up with random images: bad, unpleasant visions which so eagerly eat away at her mind, her soul; dark, painful snippets of blonds and of sex and of torment unjustifiable. For the longest time, she has put her efforts into pushing these memories back into that unknown part of her psyche, where they were powerless to wreak any havoc. But now — 

_If that's the way you want to play, bitch_ — 

— but now — 

_Imperio!_

"Oh … Oh, my god … "

— but now, Ginny realises that she can't control them anymore.

Ginny begins to scream, a sound fit to rival the jobberknoll's cry¹. She hastily bolts towards the door — only to have the magic of the room transport her back to the sofa before she's even reached five feet from it. Furious, Ginny grabs the closest object — a glass of water — and throws it at the Healer. It misses him smoothly and lands, unbroken, on the carpeted floor.

"God damn it!" she screeches. Then, in that same frenzied state, "Where — where is my husband?"

The Healer's jerks up in consternation. "Ginevra — "

" _No_! I want to see my fucking husband! Do you _know_ who he _is_?" Ginny threatens. "Do you _know_ what he's going to do to _your_ sorry arse once he finds out you're keeping me here?" Suddenly, she gives a slow, maniacal laugh. "He'll blow you to bits like he did with Tom. I want to get out of here."

A small silence ensues, the faint, erratic pants coming from her direction notwithstanding. Finally, the Healer clears his throat.

"Your husband … " he says quietly. "I assume you are referring to Harry Potter?"

"Of course I am!" Ginny answers indignantly. "I want to see him!"

For a reason she can't yet fathom, the Healer looks at her with wistful, pensive eyes. "I am afraid that isn't possible."

"And why the fuck not?"

"Because, Ginevra, Harry Potter is dead."

*

Ginny sits dumbly on the couch as her mind takes the time it needs to process the Healer's claim. Harry … _her_ Harry … _dead_? Eventually, however, she conveys her comprehension — rather, her disbelief — by shooting the Healer a look of pure abhorrence. She wonders what she's done to make him be so wicked.

"Who," she says through gritted teeth, "the _hell_ do you think you _are_?"

The Healer doesn't look the least bit daunted. "Harry Potter died of exhaustion after he defeated Voldemort — "

"No, he didn't — "

" — at the end of his seventh year — which would have been your sixth, Ginevra. He has been deceased for nearly five years now — "

"You — take — that — _BACK_ — "

"He never married. Thus, you are not his wife." The Healer folds his hands in his lap and regards her intently, as if this, in some way, will make her see reason. "Ginevra," he adds gently, "you _know_ that."

Her reflexes have Ginny getting up again; not to flee, but to tower over him. Yet even as the voice of protest builds in her throat, another image resurfaces inside her mind — no, not just an image — a _memory_ — 

_Ashes, ashes, and Tom falls dead; but so does the Boy-with-the-Scar-on-His-Head_

— and to Ginny's horror, she realises that not even she can righteously dispute that what the Healer is telling her is _true_.

Ginny feels her knees buckling. She drops back onto the couch.

_Oh, god_.

Her eyes begin to brim with tears, her face is already losing its colour, and a force worse than despair is tugging at her heart — it's not in her to think to stop it. _Harry Potter is dead, Ginevra. You are not his wife_ … "No," she whimpers, rocking back and forth in her seat, "no … It can't be … " In what is meant to be a comforting gesture, the Healer extends his hand towards her. Ginny pulls away before any touching occurs. "Leave me _alone_!"

"Ginevra … "

"Fuck! Is that all you can say?" she tearfully lashes out at him. "What? _What_? What the hell do you want from me? _WHAT_?"

The Healer gives her a pacific, albeit reprimanding, look. But what he says next is the last thing she expects to hear. "Do you miss your brothers, Ginevra?"

"I — " Ginny forgets her devastation long enough to gape at him. " _What_?"

The Healer repeats the question.

Ginny looks at him suspiciously, wondering in vain what he is trying to get at. Her brothers? What _about_ her brothers? The insensitive toad; can he not see that she is still reeling from the revelation about Harry — 

Ginny's face pales as her thoughts take a frantic turn.

"Why are you bringing them up?" she asks warily. "Why? What's happened to them?"

"Do you not know, Ginevra?"

" _WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE TO MY BROTHERS?_ "

"Ginevra," chides the Healer, "I have no care for your antics."

Ginny is breathing hard, red in the face, incensed and anxious, but compliant all the same.

"Good," the Healer approves. "Now, once more, Ginevra: I want you to tell me about your brothers."

At first, all Ginny can do is glower menacingly — _Snarky, cunning little git_ — but then, to her fury, her eyes suddenly yield to the pressure of the accumulating tears, making it impossible for her to hold her glare. Ashamed of such a display of girlish weakness, Ginny bows her head. She can't help herself. It is all just _too much_ to bear. If only she understood the method behind the Healer's madness — is this his way of preparing her for something else? Something even more terrible? In all rights, she is a woman who has just lost her husband. Just how much more is she supposed to take?

And so, unknowingly, Ginny begins to succumb to her own despair. _Of_ course _he's getting you ready for another blow, it's his job_ , she tells herself dejectedly. _He's going to confirm what it is you already know in your heart: that you are all alone in this cruel, cruel world. After all, why should you deserve any better than that, pet?_

Growing more disgusted with herself by the second, Ginny gives a dismal sigh of defeat. Her shoulders sag against the couch.

"What do you want to know?" she rasps, weary and resigned. "My brothers … I had six — six of them."

Puzzled, the Healer asks, "'Had?'"

She nods weakly. "They died during the war."

"They … did?"

_Didn't they?_ "Yes," says Ginny. _Of course they did_. "Bill and Charlie — in combat. Percy in the Ministry bombings … the twins at the massacre at Diagon Alley. And Ron … " Her face screws up in pain, and even as she speaks, it's as if she can see the events unfolding right before her eyes, and she convinces herself it's all too real not to be true — "Ron was taken hostage. When the Order didn't meet the demands, the Death Eaters shot him with — with _guns_ … 'A Mudblood death,' they said, 'fit for a Mudblood lover … ' Oh, god … "

"Ginevra," asks the Healer, and not for the first time, "do you truly believe that?"

Ginny looks up, incredulous. She can't believe what she's hearing — she can't believe what he's asking her! Not surprisingly, it's enough to get her worked up again.

"Are you _fucking_ dense?" she bites out fiercely. "My family was wiped out, and — fuck!" God help her, but she has never felt more offended or betrayed in her life. "WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME?" she rages at him. "No, really, _what_? I mean, you told me I was hiding something, but here I am, _telling you everything_ , and it's still not good enough for you! What kind of person are you? It's like you don't give the bloodiest shite what this is _doing to me_ — well, _FUCK YOU_!"

The rant leaves Ginny shaking and panting. The Healer takes a solemn breath. He doesn't speak for a while.

At last, he lifts his head to look at her, straight in the eye. "No, Ginevra," he says quietly.

" _What_?"

"You are mistaken about your brothers. They did not die in the war."

"What are you _talking_ about?" she seethes.

"They are," the Healer enunciates, "all of them, very much alive."

Slowly, Ginny starts shaking her head. She narrows her eyes. "You're a liar."

"I assure you, I'm nothing of the sort."

"Yes, you are!" Ginny viciously counters. He _has_ to be lying; she knows it! Because if he isn't, then what exactly does that mean _for her_ — "You fucking _PRICK_! Don't _toy_ with me! Is this some kind of sick joke to you?"

"No, Ginevra! I know you believe me about Harry Potter. You must believe me about your brothers. You must try to remember. They are _not dead_."

An idea pops into her head; she decides to voice it. "If they aren't dead, if they are fucking _alive_ , then how come they've never been to see me?"

The Healer blinks. He beholds her plainly.

"They have," he says softly.

Ginny shakes her head faster. "No," she hisses.

The Healer persists in spite her denial. "Yes, Ginevra. They visit you every week — on Sundays. They spend your birthdays with you, they come for the holidays … The youngest of them, Ronald, visits more often than the others; why, he has even acquired an apartment not even three blocks from this hospital. He stops by nearly every other day." The Healer pauses, his face etched with faint lines of worry, and he gently inquires, "Ginevra, do you mean to say that you have no memory of this?"

As her hands clench themselves into fists, Ginny wretchedly weeps, "No!"

The Healer takes this into consideration. "Ginevra, do — do you know where you are?"

And Ginny starts at the question; because she realises that — _Oh, god_ — she doesn't rightly know the answer.

Everything is moving so fast … much too fast for Ginny's liking. Twenty minutes ago, she perceived herself a married woman — and just like that, she never was. Five minutes ago, her brothers were alive — no, _dead_ — Ginny doesn't know anymore. In any case, the thought that she couldn't keep track of it in the first place is beyond terrifying. Just what else is going to happen to her? And since when did her own mind become a thing of so little reliance? On some level, Ginny recognises that the Healer is saying something to her, and despite her feeling like she's about to throw up any minute, she knows she ought to listen.

_He's got green eyes_ , she thinks miserably. _And black hair, too … Like pickled toads and blackboards … But he's not — he's not — Oh, god … everything is just so messed up …_

**I'm** so messed up … 

"Ginevra … " And the Healer repeats the question.

"Oh, god … " Horrified, Ginny brings her hand up to her mouth as she fully takes in her surroundings. There's only one place for people like her, and when her eyes land on the set of robes on the coat rack, she knows she's there. "I'm in the loony bin … aren't I?"

"You are in St. Mungo's²."

Ginny cringes. "It's the same thing!"

The Healer disregards this, and diverts the discussion. "Ginevra," he tells her gently, "your brothers would like it very much if they could take you home with them."

Disconsolate, she asks, "C-can't they?"

The Healer waits a moment before replying. "You are very sick, Ginevra."

No longer able to object, Ginny looks down at her lap. She swallows the lump in her throat.

"You … your mind has erected several defences as means for dealing with your affliction. As a result, on and off for the past five years, you have been living in a sub-reality of sorts, one of your own creation, rather than _the_ reality which you so clearly could not endure. I, Ginevra, have been one of the Healers assigned to you since the day of your admission here, and I may accurately attest to your lack of improvement. Believe it or not, my dear girl, but this is not the first time I have had this conversation with you. Nor do I feel as though it will be the last. You have much healing to do, Ginevra. And therefore, for the time being, I'm afraid I cannot allow you to leave these premises.

"But," he continues, and at this point, Ginny lifts her heavy head — "there _is_ hope — your condition is remediable. Now, you must understand; the process will not be an easy one, nor will it be quick and free of distress. However, with enough time and care, I am quite confident, Ginevra, that there will be a point in the future when you have so far progressed in your treatment that your stay here at St. Mungo's will be unnecessary. Would you not like that?"

Ginny looks at the Healer with a child-like doubtfulness. A reunion with her brothers … a new start … But she has grown so comfortable whilst living in her safe, precious dream world. Is it her time to wake up, she wonders? There is so much to give up. Even though her fantastical haven isn't real, everything there is bliss and nice and _perfect_ , just as she would have it; just as it is meant to be. What viable reason can she possibly have to forsake it?

And then, quite suddenly, Ginny realises that she hasn't got one reason, but _six._

Bill. Charlie. Percy, Gred and Forge … 

Ron … 

Shakily, Ginny nods. "Y-yes."

The Healer's face remains as unreadable as ever. But he says to her, "Then you must get better, Ginevra. I cannot help you unless you want to be helped."

"I know."

"No potions or charms can be of aid to you now, Ginevra; you must learn to conquer your demons alone. And that feat _is_ possible. You must try to obtain your memories, however upsetting they are, and when they are once more with you, you must resist the urge to let them go. You must accept them for the _truth_. This, and only this, is the key to your recovery."

"I … I know."

"Very well, then." Satisfied, the Healer sits back in his chair and crosses his legs. "Tell me what you remember, Ginevra."

*

Ginny closes her eyes. Then she begins to search through the mess that is her mind.

At first she sees nothing other than dark greyness, blurry white spots and scattered green swirls; she places a palm over her lids to make everything darker. _Clearer_. To her relief, this seems to bring her significant aid. Lord knows, the very last thing she needs is another distraction.

A recollection comes to her sooner than she is anticipating.

"A girl," she imparts to the Healer. "There was a girl."

"A girl?" The Healer frowns briefly, before nodding in affirmation. "Yes, Ginevra, there was."

Hesitantly, Ginny removes her hands from her eyes. A sadness she can't begin to explain is washing over her. "She was … _taken_ ," she whispers, shuddering. "For a very long time."

"She was gone for nearly a month."

Ginny bites her lip. "Did anyone look for her?"

"Ceaselessly," says the Healer, and for some reason, knowing this makes Ginny feel the tiniest bit better.

After a while, the Healer asks his next question. "Ginevra, who else was taken with — with the girl?"

She doesn't even need a second to think about it. "The loon and the Mudblood."

The Healer nods again. "Did you kill them, Ginevra?"

Despite her impetuous behaviour before, now, Ginny shows no signs of being affronted or shocked by the inquiry. Now, she only looks at the Healer timidly, as if she's a little girl wanting of his favour. She knows the answer, though. She just doesn't know how to put it.

Eventually, she slowly shakes her head. "Not the girl. The girl is still alive."

"Just barely," says the Healer delicately. He adds, almost as if only to himself, "What wounds she has received, I wish upon no one … "

Ginny quickly turns her face away.

"Now, then, Ginevra, I would like you to tell me more about Miss Lovegood and Miss Granger."

This time, Ginny visibly flinches upon hearing the names spoken aloud — but despite the effect they have on her, she pushes her way through her fears and forces her mind to open. _Miss Lovegood and Miss Granger_ , she mentally repeats, assuring herself it's okay to take it slow. _Miss Lovegood and Miss Granger_. Those were her girls … though, not quite. Ginny takes a deep breath. If she's going to do this — and for the sake of her brothers, she _has_ to — then she's going to do this right.

_Come on, Ginny_ , she orders herself. _Think of them. As they are. Think of … of Hermione and Luna_.

Ginny tries to remain steady as the memories of her two best friends return to her with a vengeance.

_No_ … 

First come the memories of Luna — of strange, dotty, glorious Luna; resplendent in her spotted, pink robes and jewellery fashioned of Butterbeer corks. The blonde girl was never averse to being one of a kind. Rarely did she give a smile of veritable happiness, but when she did … 

_No_ … 

Then — and then Hermione's voice is reverberating in Ginny's ears, urging her to do her homework, or sighing in exasperation about the indubitable prat-ness of teenaged boys. Hermione … Ginny has always borne a fondness for Hermione; from the moment their friendship was established, the two of them had always looked out for one another. Hermione was the sister that Ginny never had. _And the day she and Ron got married_ , Ginny gushes to herself, _well, that just sweetened the deal_ — 

Ginny jerks, catching herself before the thought is finished. Ron and Hermione couldn't have gotten married; she knows that. But still … She has been underestimating how easy it is to fall back into old habits.

Especially when those old habits are waiting like scavengers just to _get her …_

And Luna … Utterly unaware of it, Ginny begins to smile. _Remember how Luna adamantly insisted I pin a sprig of Witch's Snapdragon on my wedding dress, to … what was it she said? Oh, right: 'To ward off bad luck and pervy fingers'_ — 

"Stop it!" Ginny angrily scolds herself.

"Ginevra?" the Healer inserts, concerned. But Ginny doesn't even notice him. Consternation washes over her face as, once more, the memories start to change … 

Luna, resplendent in her spotted, pink robes — only — _only, those aren't robes at all — they are stains — of fluids — they are the red and white of blood and manseed combined; it is this thick, lumpy slurry which covers the blonde's unmoving, mutilated body —_

"If that's the way you want to play, bitch — "

"Oh, god … "

"Ginevra, what is it; what's going on?"

_Fuck! FUCK!_ "Oh, god … no … " _Hermione isn't fucking moving — why ISN'T SHE FUCKING MOVING! Because she_ **was** _, though, just a second ago; she was shaking all over, and she was pleading — "S-s-stop it! Stop! Oh, god, Ginny, p-please, you've got t-to st — You c-can resist, I know you c-ca — "_

Stop what? Resist what? Ginny desperately wants to know. _And then, she_ does _know, as her eyes catch the thin line of white, fiery light from where it's consuming her Muggle friend's writhing body, to where it ends … at the very tip of her own wand_ … 

"Hermione!" Ginny screams frantically³. Without a thought towards her actions, she lifts her hands and turns them over to look at her palms. Her left hand is fine. But on her right hand, _her wand hand_ , there is the evidence of that which makes her a damned woman: the terribly disfiguring white, silvery splotches; remnants of the burns she received all those years ago.

_"If that's the way you want to play, bitch — "_

And Ginny remembers when they finally found her, after all that time; _curled up in a ball and wounded and bleeding, nude except for the same, formidable white and red adorning Luna's corpse, which lay beside her. But unlike Luna, unlike Hermione,_ she _wasn't dead, no; she was still very much **alive**_ — 

"Ginevra!" calls the Healer.

"Oh, god … oh, god … "

_"Oh, god, Ginny," said the Wolf, the one with the kind voice and the greying hair. "Oh, god," he kept saying, as though she couldn't hear. Finally, when he came to his senses, he wrapped her up in that ratty, old cloak of his, and Ginny — Ginny remembers loving the way he smelled of sweat and Old Spice and chocolate as he brushed her hair out of her face. He examined her marred right hand, with its flesh still bubbling — the result of having to perform an Unforgivable while under the influence of another. "Oh, god, Ginny," the good Wolf murmured, his voice breaking along with his heart, "what … what has he done to you?"_

**He**?

Then, at that very moment, everything just _clicks_ inside Ginny's mind.

She lets out a loud gasp, one so deep and intense that she has to brace herself on the sofa's arm. "My — my wand!" she cries in realisation. "It _wasn't_ me! _I didn't say those curses_!"

This, it seems, is what the Healer's been waiting for. "Then who did?"

_If that's the way you want to play, bitch_ — 

"I — I — "

"Who killed your best friends, Ginevra? Answer the question!"

_Imperio!_

" _He_ did," Ginny scathingly bursts out, the white, pointy face growing clearer in her mind. "The dragon … the pasty little ferret with grey eyes … _he_ put me under the Imperius … he … oh, my god … "

But to the Healer, this still isn't enough. "Say his _name_ , Ginevra."

And then Ginny looks up, aghast. She can't do it. It's one thing to remember, to relive her tragedy, but to utter the name _itself_ — 

"No," she whispers, fearfully shaking her head.

"Say it."

"No!"

"Fine." The Healer arches a brow and adopts a stern, merciless mode. "But if you do not, then you doom yourself to stay here in this hospital forever. You will rot away, as many others have, within these charmed, sterile, white walls — "

"I _won't_ — !"

" — and not only will _he_ have killed your friends, _he_ will also have triumphed over _you_. Is that what you want, Ginevra?"

"No!" Ginny screams. " _No_! I hate him!"

"Who?" the Healer demands, and before Ginny realises it, before she can take it back, the two, simple words rise from the pits of her stomach like bile and fly straight out of her mouth: " _Draco Malfoy_!"

_Oh, god_.

There is no short moment of relief; there are no initial surges of success or empowerment. In fact, Ginny has never felt more frightened in her life. She sits, slightly shaking, though her face is frozen and white with shock. She can't believe herself. She can't believe what she's just done.

Because, like so many other things she's come to regret, it was just _that easy_ — 

However, what Ginny knows, and what the Healer fails to understand, is that to say the name is to accept consequences. _She has invoked him_. An impending doom now awaits her. She has no choice but to face it.

_Now look at the mess you've made, you silly pet_.

The Healer mistakes her silence for something else and assumes she is ready to continue. "You said that he placed you under the Imperius curse, Ginevra. What else did he do?"

She can practically feel _his_ breath on the back of her neck. _Yes, pet; what else did I do?_ "He — "

_Stop! Ginny, p-please, you've got t-to st_ — 

"He — "

_Remember, Ginevra, remember!_

_Oh, god, Ginny_ — 

"He — he — " Ginny struggles to explain, but it's so hard to speak when the voices inside her head won't allow her a moment's peace — "he cursed me some more … He made me believe things that — Oh, god; he made me think that I was doing it because — because — because it was what I wanted to do! And … and he locked me up … He used me. Like I was just … _nothing_ … " Her face twists in indescribable anguish. "Oh, _god_!"

"Did you deserve it?" asks the Healer.

_If that's the way you want to play, bitch_ — 

"Yes … " replies Ginny weakly. Of course she deserved it … _How could she not have?_

The Healer repeats the question.

"Yes, damn it! I — I didn't stay good; I fought back — "

"I ask you again, Ginevra Weasley, did you deserve what Draco Malfoy put you through?"

More because it will get the Healer to shut up rather than because she gives it credence, Ginny finally cries, "No!" before her body becomes overwrought with sobs. She buries her face in her hands, allowing for a hefty moment of self-pity; and then comes the self-loathing, which has her pounding her fists against her thighs. "N-n-no!" she wails. "Oh, god … !"

"Ginevra!" The Healer lunges forward and grabs her wrists. Once again, the wards of the room are activated, and with a flash of light, Ginny is no longer able to physically hurt herself. "You are a victim, Ginevra," the Healer tells her firmly, desperate to make her believe. "Only you can decide when and if that should stop."

"Don't you _get it_?" she violently snarls, squirming under her invisible restraints. "He _raped_ me! He beat me! He spread my legs open and when he was finished, he left them open for anyone else who wanted to do me! God damn him!"

"Ginevra!"

"He just did what he pleased with me — Fuck! _Fuck_! I — I couldn't even — _FUCK_!" she screams hysterically. "Why didn't anyone come for me? Didn't anyone care? I was gone for a month! He kept me prisoner for _a bloody month_! And Luna, Hermione — I _knew_ what he was going to do to them if I didn't co-operate! God damn it, don't you fucking _see_? Ginny, ickle, feisty, naughty Ginny; she pissed off the big, bad dragon, so he went and he offed all the people she loves — "

**_If that's the way you want to play, bitch_** — 

Suddenly, Ginny stops moving. She sucks in a sob. Once more, her red and blotchy face becomes wan with horror, making her freckles stand out sickeningly against her skin, and her eyes darken with realisation and dread, as what she deems is the truth starts gnawing its way into her soul.

"Oh, god," she whispers. "It's — it's my fault. It's all my fault."

The Healer's eyes widen with misgiving. " _No_ , Ginevra — "

"Oh, god … Ron, Hermione, Harry and everyone … they're all gone … because of me … "

_Yes, pet. There's no one to blame but yourself_.

"Ginevra Weasley, no!" the Healer states adamantly. "You must listen to me, to _my_ voice. Do _not_ allow yourself to slip away!"

"Oh, my god," Ginny manages to choke out; when she looks down at her palms again, all she can see is _their blood upon them_ — "What have I done?"

And inside her mind, she hears that aristocratic drawl one more time: _Pet … you_ know _what you've done … the best thing for_ you. Why, don't you remember?

Ginny lets out a small whimper. If she is going to be honest with herself, then she must admit that yes, she does remember. But for the life of her, she does not want to. Simply put, she is not made for the truth. Her mind is vulnerable and weary; she has had enough. She just wants to start over again.

_Then, ickle Ginny, by all means, do_.

"Ginevra?" the Healer calls to her, his voice dramatically rising in his insistence. "Ginevra!"

Despite the bright, white lights of the room, Ginny's pupils begin to dilate.

"No, Ginevra! Don't fall apart! You can defeat this!" The Healer is utterly fearful for her now. Patient-Healer protocol be damned as he reaches out to grab Ginny's shoulder, crying out her name over and over, shaking her, trying to snap her out of it. "Ginny!"

But it is too late. Ginny is gone again. And just like all the other times, there is no telling when or if she will ever come back.

*

Ginny doesn't want to deal with it anymore. She is too weak. She is too tired. So she rewinds a little and starts it over. She can do that, after all.

Can't everyone?

*

She doesn't exactly mean to snap, but Harry's getting to her — he's been getting to her all night. Not that she loves him any less for it. This is just one of those moments between married couples.

'What do you want me to say?' she asks him, staring at his forlorn image through her mirror. 'What do you want from me?'

She watches as he walks over to her, stopping right behind her chair. Despite her incensed mood, she can feel her heart beating faster when his hand comes up to caress the side of her face.

'Ginny,' he says, endearingly earnest, 'what do _you_ want from _me_?'

With a sigh, Ginny's eyes fall closed. _Damn you, Harry Potter_ , she muses with a smile. She can never stay mad at him for too long … 

'I'm sorry,' she sincerely admits, leaning into his touch. 'I was … ugh. I was being jealous and irrational.'

'Missish, too.'

'Don't be cocky, you prat. It's just that … ' His thumb sweeps across her cheek, her bottom lip. 'Hmm … I love you so much.'

'And I love you, too. _Only_ you. With everything I've got. I want you to remember that.'

'I will.' She opens her eyes to see him watching her in amusement. 'What?'

'What, can't a bloke be a bit chuffed to see his gorgeous wife melting like butter in his hands?' Repentant, Ginny turns her face and plants a kiss inside his palm. 'Merlin,' Harry murmurs, 'but you are my weakness, Ginny Potter.' He smiles at her. 'What do you say I go make us some tea?'

'Oh, yes,' she agrees breathlessly, already following him out the door.

'And afterwards, how about we get these clothes off and go shag like rabbits?'

Ginny giggles. 'You're mad, you know that?'

But she must be, as well, though; because when it comes right down to it, there isn't any other idea in the world that sounds lovelier to her than his.

**|-Fin-|**

* * *

**Endnotes :**

1\. "jobberknoll": " … is a tiny blue, speckled bird … It makes no sound until the moment of its death, at which point it lets out a long scream made up of every sound it has ever heard, regurgitated backwards". From Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them, by Newt Scamander, Obscurus Books (p 24-25) :)

2\. Ginny's in Spell Damage.

3\. Great waves of appreciation to **Alcarcalime** for bringing this up: The Unforgivable Curse that Ginny inflicts upon Hermione is the Cruciatus, _not_ the Killing Curse. Hermione is actually pleading for her life whilst being exposed to _Crucio_ 's effects; that's why she's got such difficulty speaking (Ooh; so how _did_ she die, then? :)). Furthermore, I'm assuming that the colour of this Curse's light is white, because I haven't had time to look it up — all right, it's just because I'm plain too lazy. However, I encourage you to correct me on the matter if it needs to be done. Yay. Yeah.

**Other notes** :

• Yeah, I know I used the word "apartment" instead of the word "flat". But you must remember, after all, that the Healer, the character who says the word, is American.

• As one of my colleagues duly noted, apparently, in my fics, my Eastern American characters are incapable of uttering contractions or nicknames.

• There's the matter of Mr and Mrs Weasley, in that they are totally not mentioned in this fic. Indeed, when Ginny says that her whole family's gone, she only refers to her brothers. So where are her parents? The answer: who cares? This story was exhausting to write, and I only saw this slight at the very end of beta-ing. I'd rather address it in an A/N than actually work the missing characters in again. Sorry about that.

Right then, that's that. Be a dear and give a girl a review, eh? 


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